


Self-love (Self-hate)

by AliaMael



Category: Subarashiki Kono Sekai | The World Ends With You
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Multi, Selfcest, reference to abuse, reference to masochism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-08
Updated: 2020-11-08
Packaged: 2021-03-09 03:26:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,093
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27457963
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AliaMael/pseuds/AliaMael
Summary: When Sanae thought of self-love, he didn't –couldn't– put the exact same meaning behind the word that humans did.And then, Taboo came.
Relationships: Hanekoma Sanae/Hanekoma Sanae
Kudos: 2





	Self-love (Self-hate)

When Sanae thought of self-love, he didn't –couldn't– put the exact same meaning behind the word that humans did.

Loving oneself is precious. It can be hard; in fact it can be the hardest thing in a life. It's worth the effort, though. And while it can help with building relationships, it is by essence a solitary act.

At least for humans.

Sanae was an angel, and that meant many things. One of these many differences was that he was aware of the infinity of parallel universes spawning Reality, and he could visit them. On the other hand, he was also close enough to human to feel loneliness and seek comfort.

So yeah, when Sanae thought about self-love, it was more complex than loving himself. It was loving _everyone_ that he was, every iteration of him, as alike or as different as they were, because in the end they were him, he was them, and they _understood_ each other in a way no human could ever hope to attain.

And so this form of love was utterly inhuman at its very core, because it was impossible to know another human so well, but Sanae _did_ know himself. He trusted himself, too.

It was only natural to offer himself company and comfort. He regularly visited random universes. They _all_ did, and WildKat held memories of dozens of angels –and still, only one.

He visited a bakery, and ended up trading recipes above a hot chocolate, legs intertwined under the table.

He traced each and every line of a fully tattooed body, shivering at the intense touch of the other who was as fascinated by his own blank canvas.

He saw bruises shaped like hands around a throat, and the way that other had touched them every now and then, blushing and smiling as if comforted by the marks.

He saw the exact same pattern of black and purple and yellow and held him gently as he cried without a sound, unable or unwilling to say a word.

He helped himself cut his hair, and braid it down to his waist. He sang duets, gave himself a leg up to tag high walls. He put himself to bed when he fell asleep on an art project; he woke up with a comforting warmth against his back instead of the emptiness of his workshop. He hugged himself, kissed himself, had sex with himself.

Through all of this, he loved himself with all his soul, never imagining it could change.

And then, Taboo came.

With Taboo came the Fall, and with the Fall came a cold to his very core that he didn't really understand. He didn't regret what he did. He would do it all over again.

He still hated it.

He hated that he was now a fugitive of a sort, even if he refused to leave Shibuya, which made it a very weird flight. He hated that he couldn't go and see himself anymore, because they would be bound to report him to the Higher Plane. After all, that's what all angels were supposed to do.

(No matter that _he_ wouldn't do it for any of his other selves, because he trusted them, and he fully believed that anything that could make them Fall would be worth it.)

Something felt _wrong_ and distorted somewhere deep inside of him, and for the first time in his existence he didn't understand himself perfectly. He still looked the same, he still loved Shibuya and Joshua and his other selves with the same intensity, and still painted and sewed and brew coffee, and yet it all felt _different_.

He had the urge to hide. He felt so lonely it _hurt_.

When he felt one of his other selves coming into his universe, he twisted Music around him to cover his presence, and wept when they left.

Sometimes he wondered if it would not be better to just give up and surrender himself to the Higher Plane. That way the others would be free of him and the danger he was for them all.

(None of them deserved to be dragged into his mess.)

Then he started to find gifts randomly appearing in his workshop or his bedroom. Pastries. A painting. Flowers. Meters of handmade lace. A cat plushie. A knitted sweater made of the softest yarn he ever touched.

He _knew_ who was behind them all. He couldn't allow himself to _believe_ it.

(He took to keeping the stuffed toy with him all the time. He was practically living in this sweater.)

(He didn't deserve the comfort but he was too weak to refuse it when it was _there_.)

One day, he woke up and discovered he couldn't move, pinned into place by too many arms and legs. He froze, heartbeat picking up in panic.

"Relax," a sleepy and heartbreakingly familiar voice said against his neck. "You're safe."  
"But…" he protested weakly, "I… I'm…"

He couldn't say it, but it didn't matter anyway.

"You're Fallen, yes," said another in front of him, looking above the shoulder of _yet_ another.  
"We all know it."  
"We don't care."

Sanae couldn't help it. He started crying.

"We may be different," one of them went on gently, "but we are one all the same. There's nothing you did we wouldn't have done in your place."  
"Even hiding from all of us," another added, a smile in his voice.  
"It doesn't change our feelings for you. _Nothing_ could change our feelings for you."

Sanae wanted to object, but he couldn't. He _understood_. Nothing could change his feelings toward the others either. It was just the taint in _himself_ that he couldn't love anymore.

(He would have loved it in any other.)

When they started to gently kiss him wherever they could reach, he couldn't help but _cling_ , not caring whose skin he was bruising.

"We'll be there for you, for as long as you need us."  
"… don't you have things to do?" Sanae asked weakly. "Back home?"

One of them laughed.

"We couldn't fit all of us in your bed, we can take turns."  
"You don't need to be alone for even one second if you don't _genuinely_ want it."  
"… I don't want to be alone", he whispered.  
"Then you won't be."

And that was it. They stayed with him, and even if _they_ were not always the same iterations, he was indeed never alone. They held him, comforted him, and teased, and laughed, and _lived_ , and slowly, so very slowly, Sanae began to heal from this very human sickness that was self-hate.


End file.
